The Stiles Stilinski Files
by mssstilinski
Summary: The worst thing Stiles can imagine is fighting in another war. The second worse thing Stiles can imagine is his pack finding out. When the two happen at the same time? That's the absolute worst.
1. Chapter 1

Stiles hated being a demigod.

It was exhausting and dangerous and a constant problem in his life – it was like a job he couldn't quit and one where getting fired meant taking an eternal cruise on the River Styx.

So, not good. But Stiles dealt with it in the most _Stiles_ way possible, all bumbling and uncoordinated and dramatic.

(Not that Stiles was in any way dramatic.)

He pushed himself off his locker, hands gripping the front of Scott's shirt. "I'm telling you, we need to do something."

"Do we?" Scott grinned down at Stiles hands, then back up at Stiles. "All he did was retire."

"People don't retire this far into a year. It's March."

Scott gave him a look – which was not the reaction Stiles was hoping for – and shrugged. Stiles opened his mouth to argue, to _insist_ that they get involved, when a small shimmer caught the corner of his eye.

It rippled in the air behind Scott's ear, and before he could stop himself, he reached out and swatted it away. Scott glanced back in confusion, but there was nothing there, and he turned to Stiles. He gave him a questioning look and Stiles grinned in response, shrugging the most nonchalant shrug he could muster and said, "Thought I saw a bird."

Scott nodded, unbothered because this was usual for Stiles (and for Beacon Hills) and shoved a book into his locker. Stiles followed suit and they headed off to class, Stiles chalking the call up to nothing more than accident.

 _Just an accident._

#

Stiles was standing on the Lacrosse field, his arm draped around Liam's shoulders, giving said werewolf tips on how to make sure the ball went _into_ the net and being ignored, when he got another call. The air shimmered to Stiles' right, faint colors of the rainbow sneaking into his peripheral. He ripped his arm off Liam's shoulder and swung his lacrosse stick across the air, a definite _whoosh_ striking his ears as it swiped away the message. Liam, who hadn't been listening to him before, turned to look at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "What was that?"

Stiles, just like before, shrugged his shoulders. "What was what? I didn't – I didn't hear anything. Or see anything. Yeah, yeah, definitely didn't see anything." He paused, eyeing Liam up and down, and mustered up the most patronizing tone he could, "Why, did you?"

Liam opened and closed his mouth a few times, before deciding that Stiles was promptly _losing_ _it_ and not worth answering, then started to walk off. Stiles immediately roped him back in, slinging his arm back around his shoulder, content that he hadn't seen it. He nodded and tried to convince himself the second time didn't mean trouble. His friends…they just forgot? _Forgot he was three hours behind them and in school?_ Yeah, that had to be it.

Stiles immediately went back to talking about lacrosse.

#

He was at lunch the third time it happened, sandwiched in-between Lydia and Mason.

He was talking up a storm, listing reasons they should investigate the abandoned warehouse downtown ("They built it six months ago! Why is it already abandoned?") and doing his best to get Scott to consent to his little adventure.

"They need us," he grinned, slapping the table to excite his friends pack. Lydia rolled her eyes at him, Malia scoffed, and both Liam and Mason ignored him. Scott did his little eyebrow raise, the one he did when he was amused but not particularly motivated, and shook his head, "They don't need us."

He glanced up at his best friend, ready to argue that, _yes, yes, they do,_ when he saw it. The shimmering image was just starting to form, right behind Malia's right shoulder. He furrowed his eyebrows, a mixture of confusion and worry and determination flashing across his face and chunked a chocolate milk carton across the courtyard. It sailed passed Malia's ear at inhuman speed and went right through the message, landing a few feet behind them and busting open. All his friends looked toward him, confusion plastered on their faces.

Stiles glanced around the table, letting a natural grin spread across his face, like his stomach hadn't dropped a moment before. "What?"

"Is there a reason you threw a milk cartoon?" Mason asked from Stiles' left, his eyes wide and curious. Stiles turned toward his young friend, squinting in disbelief, and sputtered out, "There was a wasp."

Liam raised his brow at Stiles, "So you threw your milk?"

Stiles gave Liam an incredulously look, playing the situation out as dramatically as he possibly could. Like his _father_ would have _._ (But Stiles was not dramatic.) He shrugged, turning his exotic expression into an innocent grin. "It was supposed to be a fry. _Obviously_ , that didn't go as planned."

They all nodded at him, like it was a normal occurrence (It was, though. Sometimes, Stiles was just – weird.) and went back to talking over each other and picking at each other's food. Lydia's hand squeezed his bicep, drawing his attention toward her and away from his thoughts. He smiled at her and leaped back into the conversation like nothing had happened.

But he heart was racing – three times meant trouble, didn't it?

#

The fourth time, Stiles didn't hesitate. Instead of waiting for the shimmering image to form in the middle of his English class, in front of a bunch of _mortals,_ in front of his pack, he did the only thing he could think of, and dived face first into the message, causing it to vanish.

He landed on the floor with an audible _thump._

The room erupted with laughter and Stiles groaned, his body aching and his mind racing. This was the fourth call, the _fourth._ There had to be something wrong. He glanced up, first at his teacher, at her narrowed eyes and pursed lips, and then up at Lydia, who was leaning over the front of her desk, a grin spread across her face.

They hadn't seen the message. _Mission accomplished_.

He smiled sheepishly at her, the action unnoticeably forced, and stood in one swift motion. He marched over to his seat beside her and sat confidently (except he was freaking out inside, totally freaking out), nodding apologetically to his teacher. Instead of yelling at him and demanding he finish his presentation, which she could have done, she just huffed in annoyance and called up the next person.

Thank the gods for that.

Stiles didn't know what he would have said or if he could have said anything at all. His heart was beating against his chest rapidly and breathing was painful. He shut his eyes and inhaled slowly.

The girl in front of the class started to speak, and her voice took Stiles away from his thoughts. As Sydney's voice echoed through the room, Lydia leaned over and whispered, "That was terrible, Stiles."

He let out the breath he was holding.

"I thought it was witty and original." He whispered in return, his voice a bit uneven. His heart was still pounding.

She studied him for a moment, emerald green eyes digging into his skin, and he forced himself to smile. She grinned, not noticing he was about to unravel in-front of her eyes, about to fall apart, and said, "Nothing about you is witty or original."

"Touché, my lady," Stiles let the remark slide off his tongue. _Breath, Stiles._ He turned around toward Scott, who was staring at the two of them, amusement playing in his eyes. _Breathe._ "What about you? Was that speech not the best thing your beastly ears have ever heard?"

Scott huffed out a silent laugh, "The very best."

"See Lyds? It was innovative." Stiles stressed out every word, doing his best to make it sound normal, dramatic and casual all in one.

The teacher shot him a look. He grimaced and took a deep breath, another attempt to calm himself down. _Just breathe._ His heart thumped against his chest, so fast Scott could hear it if he tried.

Luke had taught him to steady his heartbeat once. Why couldn't he do it now? _Breathe, dammit._

Malia leaned forward from behind Lydia, her dark and curious eyes drilling into him, "And what was with the jumping?"

Stiles turned from them, willing himself to swallow the sick feeling welling up in his stomach. He needed a moment. _Breathe._ Except he didn't have a moment, and there was nothing he could do to calm himself down, to force himself to relax.

Something was wrong.

This was his family, calling him for the _fourth_ time. Something had to be wrong, they would never call him four times in a day unless _something was wrong_. The last time they'd called this many times, Percy had gone missing. Four times warranted something more than just a quick hello, more than a _hey, we miss you, just wanted to let you know your dad lost his immortality this morning. Cheers, Stilinski._ He turned back to look at Malia, only for a moment, and shrugged. "Dramatic flair?"

(So, Stiles was a bit dramatic. Who knew?)

He didn't have to look at them to know that they were starting to suspect something was up. He could feel them staring, could feel their eyes piercing into him, drilling into the back of his head, just begging for him to say something. He glanced toward the clock, wishing time would move faster. _Breathe, Stiles._ He glanced toward the door. He could leave. He _should_ leave. He needed to find out what was happening. He needed to find out _why_ _they keep calling?_ He glanced back at the clock. Forty minutes left.

He should just leave.

But what if he left and it was nothing? What if he was just paranoid and overreacting and it was nothing? Gods, his dad would kill him – and Stiles wasn't in a hurry to die.

He could risk it though. His dad would understand. Sure, his dad didn't necessarily _like_ the other part of his life, but he coped with it, he dealt. He'd understand.

"Stiles?" Lydia's voice snapped Stiles out of his trance. He still didn't look up at them. "Are you okay?"

Stiles nodded, forcing himself to turn and smile, to give them his best 'I'm fine' grin. It looked more like a grimace. Scott reached out, resting his hand on Stiles' shoulder and squeezing, trying to give him some comfort. "Stiles, what's wrong?"

Stiles didn't answer. He glanced back at the door and immediately stiffened, his eyes going wide is shock. There was a man standing in the hallway, young and muscular and familiar. Stiles knew him on sight. Apollo. _Dad?_

No, no, that can't be right. Apollo wasn't a god. Not anymore.

 _Breathe._ Stiles throat constricted, and his eyes burned, and he needed to leave. He could feel himself start to panic. He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, thought back to Lydia and the locker room. _Breathe._

"Stiles?"

Lydia was talking to him, Scott was talking to him, Malia was talking to him. People around them were starting to notice. Sydney's voice was trailing off as she looked at him. Gods, he couldn't handle it. _Breathe._

He couldn't focus.

He threw his stuff into his backpack and stood up, rushing out of the room. He had to get out of there. He stuttered out, "I'm sorry, I need to go."


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles knew he didn't have long before the pack showed up – Scott had rushed out after him, calling his name, but Stiles had just kept walking and to hell with the consequences.

(But the drive home had made him a bit guilty – he couldn't stop thinking about the look Scott had given him.) (Of course, not guilty enough to not lock the doors in case they showed up earlier than planned.)

He went straight to his drawers when he got home, rummaging through them for a drachma, leaving his floor littered with clothes.

When he found one, he moved across the hall to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He caught his reflection in the mirror and stared for a moment, drinking in just how terrible he looked. His face was pale and ashen, forehead dripping with sweat, and the longer he stared, the deeper his eyes seemed to sink. His knuckles gripped the sink and he willed himself to take a deep breath.

He shut his eyes and inhaled and exhaled again, sending out a quick prayer to his dad, to Percy's dad, to whatever god or goddess that may have been listening. _Let everything be okay. Please._ He swallowed and opened his eyes, setting to work on creating a make-shift rainbow.

The image finally shimmered in front of him and he tossed in the drachma, his lips spitting out the incantation his memorized at age eleven.

"Stiles? Dude, you…you look like shit."

Stiles' head snapped toward the voice and he smiled instinctively, his whole body releasing the tension it held. The sound of Percy's voice calmed him, made him feel steady and stable and like _he could breathe again._ He inhaled and exhaled slowly, exercising his new-found freedom. His heart rate slowed, the first time he couldn't hear his blood rushing in his ears since he left class. But when Percy's remark registered, he scoffed and opened his mouth to respond with something snarky and mildly insulting, but his voice caught in his throat at the sight of Percy, who looked far worse than Stiles did.

"You're one to talk," He said slowly, eyes narrowed as he took in every inch of his friend's face, from Percy's pale, tired eyes and tight lips to his bruised jaw. It had been months since he'd looked this bad. Hadn't been since the end of the Second Giant War, not since Tartarus. "What in the Hades happened to you?"

He watched as Percy's face grew cold and hard, jaw clenching in rage. It made Stiles want to shrink into himself. (The sole son of Poseidon didn't scare him, and he _never_ had, but something about the look on his face now was unnerving.) He shuffled his feet and leaned forward on the sink, waiting.

"Katie got a little heated during training. But, not why I called." Percy paused, scoffing in what Stiles thought was anger. "Rachel gave the next great prophecy last night. Chiron fears it's already been set in motion. Apollo does too."

Stiles' blood went cold. His heart raced inside his chest, the air in his lungs seemed to vanish, and he forced himself to blink back the tears welling up in his eyes. _No, no, no, this shouldn't be happening._ He exhaled heavily.

His shock must have been noticeable because Percy waited, crossed his arms and looked away, giving Stiles a moment to collect his thoughts. Stiles didn't know how long they stood there, Percy letting him reel in all his emotions, letting him come to terms with the fact that the he might have to fight another war.

 _Stiles didn't want to fight another war_.

He was fed up with watching his friends die, of watching his _brothers and sisters die._ He had lost too many people. He'd lost Beckendorf and Silena and Luke. He'd lost Luke twice, not that he'd admit watching Luke die had hurt him. He'd lost Michael and he'd lost Lee and he'd lost Leo. He'd lost _Allison._

He didn't want to lose anyone else.

"Tell me the prophecy."

His voice was low, barely audible against his own ears, but he knew Percy had heard him. It was silent for a little longer, but this time Stiles was waiting for Percy to speak – he was kind of grateful Percy didn't rush into it. It gave Stiles another chance to calm himself down. Sure, there was another great prophecy and Chiron thought it was playing out right now, but even then, there was not certainty. There was no guarantee that it would happen in this lifetime. It could happen two hundred years from now, when Stile and everyone he loved was already dead. It would be someone else's problem.

Two great prophecies _had_ to be where the fates drew the line.

He glanced up at Percy, who frowned in response. "I think…Rachel should be the one to tell you." He licked his lips, like he was gathering his thoughts. "It mentioned something I think you'll understand better in person."

Stiles huffed in amusement, feeling a bit lighter than he had the moment before. He wanted to go back to camp so bad. But he said, "You want me to come home? It's March. I'm in school, Jackson."

"You're like fourth in your class."

"My dad will kill me if I skip town and don't tell him." Stiles didn't know why he was being so admit about it. He knew he wanted to go. He knew he had too.

"So, tell him. He'll understand." Percy sounded so earnest, Stiles couldn't do anything but bob his head in confirmation.

"Doesn't mean he'll be happy about it."

"I know…but we need help. There's something else too."

Stiles waited for Percy to continue.

"It's the campers. They're…evolving? I don't know if that's what you'd you call it, but they're gaining all these new powers, doing things they shouldn't be able to do, abilities Chiron has never seen a demigod possess like this. And," He paused, a dark look sweeping over his face. "Do you remember when they found Chris Rodriguez? How gone he was?"

Stiles remembered. He was fourteen…fifteen, maybe… he'd been there the morning they brought him into the infirmary and he'd been there later that summer when Clarisse hauled him off to the big house to get fixed. He'd decided then that he wouldn't ever piss off Mr. D again.

(That didn't go according to plan, but that's a different story.)

He nodded. Percy said, "They found Clarisse like that two weeks ago. Pollux…he didn't mean to. Hell, he didn't know he could, but he did it. He drove her insane. She's fine now, but I have never – and I mean, _never_ – seen Clarisse so terrified. No one will go near Pollux. Then Connor started charmspeaking. You know, he's always been persuasive. But now, he's as good as Piper and no one knows how it happened. It's not…"

"Not something he should be able to do. Yeah, I understand." Stiles finished, his voice even and controlled. _What in the hell was happening?_

"Then there's Kayla."

Stiles stiffened at his sister's name. His hands found their way back to the sink, tightening 'til they felt numb. "What happened to her?"

"She's fine," Percy rushed, holding out his hands in a gesture that said _don't worry._ Stiles nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat, and motioned for Perc to keep talking. "She nearly killed Butch. She didn't mean to…but they were arguing about a stupid game of archery. One moment she was glaring and yelling in his face and the next, he was hunched over, vomiting up blood and burning up."

"That's supposed to be impossible." Stiles face darkened as he spoke. "It's unheard of – Dad doesn't think we should hold that kind of power – not that he's one to talk, but –"

He stopped short, the sound of a slowing car catching his attention. He signaled Percy and crossed the hall to his room, going to the window facing his driveway. Lydia's car pulled in beside his jeep right as he looked out.

Locking the door had been a good idea.

Back in the bathroom, Percy called his name. He walked back over, frowning. "Do you know what's causing it?"

The son of Poseidon didn't answer, instead glanced down and swallowed. Stiles stared at the floating image, studying Percy's face curiously. He was frowning, green eyes riddled with worry and confusion and rage. It wasn't the first time Stiles had seen Percy bruised and tired, but he couldn't recall a time he'd seen his friend so helpless, so _unsure._ Finally, Percy looked up and met Stiles' gaze, shaking his head.

It was the exact answer Stiles had been expecting. "What does Annie have to say?"

"She doesn't have a clue. Her and Malcolm have been working non-stop, seeing if there are any mentions of something like this in anything they can get their hands on. No such luck, so far." Percy answered quicker this time, brows quirking up in interest, a real smile playing on his lips at the mention of Annabeth.

Stiles couldn't help but grin back at him, "She'll get it eventually. She's Annabeth. Greatest demigod of this generation."

"Yeah…that's my girl."

"And don't tell her I said that, Jackson. Or you're dead." Percy let out a soft laugh in response and shrugged in a way that said _I make no promises._

Gods, Stiles was never hear the end of that.

They stood in silence for a bit longer, a bittersweet happiness floating around in Stiles' chest. He could hear the pack downstairs, banging on the door and calling his name, and he knew Percy could hear it too. Neither of them said anything about it.

Then Percy cleared his throat, but when he spoke, his voice still cracked.

"We need you to come home, Stiles."


	3. Chapter 3

"Stiles, we know you're behind the door."

Stiles had his ear pressed against the door, listening to his friends argue on the other side, for about seven seconds before they'd known he was there. One of them jiggled the doorknob, still attempting to get in, and the demigod sighed in exasperation.

He'd been hoping to make it out before Scott, Malia, and Lydia showed up. On the way home, he'd decided that his sudden disappearance would be much easier to not explain over the phone, where they couldn't force it out of them. Where he was out of reach of Malia's claws and Lydia's famous glare.

His first mistake had been hoping. (Hoping isn't good for anything when you're a demigod. If you didn't want it to happen, it happened, and it always happened way worse than you expected it to.)

His friends had rolled up in Lydia's car before he had one foot out the door, pulling in – thankfully – to the left of his jeep. He could make it out of the driveway. He just needed to get out of the house first.

Here's to hoping he could.

He closed his eyes and banged his head against the door a few times before bringing it to rest there. He took a deep breath, in and out and in and out, and then leaned back, throwing the door open wide. He gave them a shit-eating grin and pushed through.

Lydia was the first one to react.

She turned at followed him until they were standing in front of his jeep. She eyed the backpack hanging over his shoulder, jaw clenching. Her eyes narrowed – in suspicion? "Are you going somewhere, Stiles?"

He started to respond, but the worry that had replaced the suspicion in her eyes stopped him, made his voice catch. Instead he glanced down and shuffled his feet. He _could_ just walk past them, ignore their pleas, and leave. Hell, maybe they would trust him enough to _just let him_. It's not like it hadn't happened before. How many of their friends had mysteriously disappeared one day? The only difference between them and Stiles was he would be coming back.

Or he hoped he would, at the least.

"Stiles?"

Malia's tone was demanding. She crossed her arms defiantly over her chest, her eyes going to his backpack too. She was pushing him for an answer.

Stiles slipped on an easy grin, prepared to tell some bullshit lie about – about what? What would warrant him leaving so unexpectedly?

His grip on his backpack tightened and he started up again, brainstorming something believable, when he caught sight of Scott standing at Lydia's shoulder, his face clouded over with concern and panic. Stiles' voice caught in his throat and he couldn't find it in himself to speak, to talk his way out of this. He couldn't find it in himself to lie.

 _Damn Apollo and his truthfulness._

"I…I have somewhere important to be."

Lydia stepped forward and reached out for his hand, but Stiles took a step back, until he was pressed against the front of his jeep. Hurt flashed across her face and Stiles tried to ignore the pain that welled up in his chest. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt them.

But he knew, better than anyone, that once you got involved with gods and monsters and wars, there was no getting out.

Scott stepped forward too and gave Stiles the kindest smile. "So, we'll go with you."

"You can't."

"Stiles, you're really starting to weird me out. Just tell us what's wrong and we'll fix it." That was Malia, voice sharp and annoyed. Still pushing for an answer.

"I have a friend that needs my help, but I can't say with what and I can't tell you where. It's too dangerous." He knew that wasn't enough for them, but that's what they were getting. He didn't want to get them more involved than they had to be.

They were stuck protecting Beacon Hills. They didn't need to worry about the rest of the world too.

Scott's dark eyes narrowed in confusion and Stiles knew he didn't understand the whole _too dangerous_ thing. How could he? He was an Alpha who'd kicked quite a few asses. But…this was different. Stiles didn't know what the prophecy was or if it was guaranteed to happen, but it was still too big, too out of control. Scott said, "We're always in danger. And we always survive. We survive _together._ C'mon man, tell us what's wrong."

"Do we? What about Allison? Or Aiden? Have any of you seen Erica or Boyd lately? They didn't make it, they didn't survive. It's bullshit, Scott. Bullshit." It flowed out before he could stop it. "I'm telling you, you can't come and you're all still so insistent on putting yourself in danger. It's bigger than you and it's worse than anything you've ever had to deal with. You can't come." His voice sounded harsher than he intended, but it had the affect he wanted; Scott took a step back, visibly shocked. He gave Stiles a curt not.

Malia, no surprise there, wasn't having it. "Now's not the time to be a hero, Stiles."

"I'm not being a hero, Lia."

Lydia rushed forward, catching Stiles' free hand in her own. She held in him his place, thumb rubbing the back of his hand, and she was silent for the longest moment, lips pursed as if trying to come up with something to say. The look in her eyes made him want to run. Finally, "You're coming back, right? Whatever you're getting yourself into, you can handle it and you'll come back, won't you? If you're leaving, I need you to promise me that."

Stiles rubbed his thumb over her hand absentmindedly. He swallowed and shook his head, looking anywhere but at them. What was he supposed to say? How could he say anything at all and not have them put up a fight? Was he supposed to just drop all pretenses, tell them _I'm on my way to New York, to fight in another war, and I might not make it back, you might never see me again? And it's all because my dad's this all-powerful god or whatever?_ Yeah, because that would go over real smooth.

"I can't do that. I'm sorry."

Malia arms tightened over her chest. She met his gaze, brown eyes flooding with emotion – he could see her worry, her anger, her fear – and his heart skipped a beat. Then, she nodded at him and backed up, turning her back on him and marching back to Lydia's car. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

Stiles turned his attention toward Scott – jaw clenched, hands balled, dark eyes burning into his head. It was a look he'd seen before, that night it the rain, after Donovan, and it made his skin crawl and his stomach drop. He'd tried to get Scott to understand that night. _Some of us are human, some of us have to make mistakes._ He hadn't understood then, why should this be any different? Except this wasn't the same.

This wasn't a mistake; he had family to protect, people he couldn't lose.

When he looked down at Lydia – only inches from him, eyes wide and pleading – he stopped breathing. It was too much. He blinked, memories of Lydia looking up at him with those very same eyes running through his head, suffocating him. He could see them, spinning on the dance floor sophomore year, a new-found appreciation bouncing all around her. He could see them in his room, later the same year, after Lydia had charged into danger, not caring if she lived or died. She gave him that look after he told he'd go out of his mind if he ever lost her. He could see her on her knees in front of him, the two of them alone in the locker room, could feel her hands cupping his cheeks after she'd kissed him. She'd said, "You held your breath."

Stiles wasn't breathing now.

He detangled his hand from Lydia's, a disbelieving scoff escaping his lips. Gods, why couldn't the world go to shit at a more convenient time? After graduation, when he could just leave and give some lame church camp excuse? At least Kronos and Gaea had the decency to wait until summertime. This great prophecy was a real pain in the ass. He shook his head and when he spoke, his voice was louder than before. "I can't promise that I'll come back – but believe me when I tell you I will do whatever it takes to get back to you." He stopped, blinking back the tears welling up in his eyes. "None of you need to get involved with this. You deserve more than this, okay? I'm sorry."

"You're still leaving," Scott said.

It was more of a statement than a question, but Stiles still nodded. He loosened the grip he had on his backpack and it fell from his shoulder, still caught in his hand. He took a step forward. None of them made a move to stop him. He inhaled, feeling lighter, more at ease.

"I'll be back for you know it."

Stiles pulled into the Sheriff station. His mind was racing a mile a minute. _Just have to say goodbye._ He was going in to find his dad, he was going to explain, and then he was leaving. He didn't know what he would do if his dad tried to stop him.

He could feel himself starting to sweat. He wiped his clammy hands against pants, forcing himself to smile at Jordan Parrish, who was walking toward him. He forced himself to smile.

As the deputy approached, Stiles' stomach churned; something about Parrish made him uneasy and nervous. It wasn't his fault though, Parrish just _always_ made Stiles feel weird. It didn't matter how long he tried to wrap his head around it and it didn't matter how long he spent asking Hades if there were other _types_ , the young demigod still had trouble believing Parrish was a hellhound. Stiles had met _plenty_ of hellhounds. He'd killed more than enough to know that they weren't walking, talking 6-foot police officers. By the gods, his best friend had a _pet_ hellhound.

Mrs. O'Leary and Parrish weren't even in the same playing field.

But, he pushed his thoughts aside and forced himself to speak. "My dad around?"

"He's in his office." Parrish studied Stiles, narrowed eyes looking him up and down, "You okay, man? You're sweating pretty bad."

Stiles fought the urge to roll his eyes. He was aware he was sweating, and he didn't need any shit about it. He just wanted to get this over with. He wanted to leave.

"I'm fine, absolutely peachy, tip-top shape, thank you for your concern. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to see my dad." He snapped back, pushing past the deputy.

When the door to his office opened, Stiles' dad glanced up, face lighting up when he realized it was Stiles. Ten seconds passed, and then twenty and thirty, and the expression of the sheriff's face shifted – his eyes went dark, and his jaw hardened. He stood, making his way over to Stiles, moving so fast his son instinctively backed himself against the door. _He's your dad, dumbass, calm down._

"Stiles, what's wrong?

The boy in question huffed angrily. When did he become so easy to read?

"I'm fine."

His father didn't speak, instead stood for a moment, and Stiles knew he was being examined. He walked around his dad, making his way to lean against his father's desk. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his nimble fingers fiddling with the coin that always rested in his left pocket, and shuffled his feet impatiently. This wouldn't be the first time Stiles left. He was gone all the time, keeping himself busy between saving the world and saving Beacon Hills, but he'd never left like this, with no explanation, in the middle of the school year, with no real plans.

Percy had asked him to come home, so he was going.

He could feel his dad's gaze on him, staring, the around them sparking with tension. Stiles' stomach knotted up and he took a deep breath. _Holy Hera, Stiles, just tell him._ He looked up, meeting his father's eyes, his stare serious and unmoving.

"I'm leaving."

The sheriff's mouth opened immediately in protest, his arms crossing defiantly over his chest, but Stiles cut him off. "Percy called. Rachel spit out another prophecy and campers are starting to gain these incredible powers, powers they shouldn't have. You know what the means, dad. There's something coming, and I can't – I can't stay here and wait it out. They need me. And yes, I know you're against the whole army-of-teenager's thing, but it's what we do, it's who we are. We save the world."

It sounded calmer, more confident that Stiles imagined it would. The words flowed out, soft and smooth and powerful, and he relaxed a bit. Speeches came easy sometimes, when the sun was positioned just right, like his _dad_ was helping out, giving him his blessing. He cleared his throat and kept going, "I came to tell you I was leaving, not to argue with you about it. I'll be fine, dad – I'll be safe. Percy will have my back, he'll look out for me, and when we get this whole thing figured out, I'll bring him to dinner, like you've been asking. Even if I have to drag him the whole way. You don't have to worry about me."

The sheriff huffed, his jaw clenching and unclenching on and off. The two of them held each other's gaze steadily for what seemed like forever, neither one of them daring to break. Stiles had said what he wanted to say, and he'd said it out loud. Everything his dad wanted to say was evident, written plainly across his face.

Just as Stiles thought he would have to say something else, a bittersweet smile graced his dad's lips.

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" He closed the space between him and his son, pulling Stiles into a bone-crushing hug. "You come home to me, you hear? I can't lose you – I love you too much, son."

"I know, Dad, I know. I love you, too. So, don't you worry. I'll be back before you know it." As the words left his mouth, Stiles' heart skipped a beat. He pulled away quickly, the thought of leaving his friends standing in his driveway flashing through his head.

Hephaestus hands, he was a dick.

"Scott, Lydia, and Malia saw me leave the house. They tried to stop me, asked a bunch of question. I kind of left them standing there. You'll – uh, you'll cover for me, right?"

His dad gave him a look and Stiles nodded. He'd have hell to pay when he got back.

 _If he made it back._

He pushed the thought aside and hugged his dad again. He pulled back, holding his dad at arm's length. "You'll look out for them, though? Keep them out of trouble?"

"Keep Scott McCall out of trouble?" His dad was grinning. "I'll give it a try, Stiles."

"Touché."

As he walked out the door, Stiles tried to ignore the nervousness welling up inside him, the tension in his stomach settling like the calm before the storm. His pack would be fine without him.

Right?


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles swerved around the hydra, tires squealing on the blacktop. His jeep toppled over and went rolling into the woods, turning and turning, until it came to a stop, throwing Stiles into his steering wheel. Pain seared through his chest and his vision blurred, sending everything out of focus. He gasped at the pain, breathing heavily, and he reached toward the wheel, grunting and pushing himself away from the wheel. He pulled one hand away quickly, felt around his waist, and unbuckled his seat belt.

He went crashing down onto his roof. He let out a groan, eyes snapping shut as another wave of pain washed over him.

As the seconds passed, ten and twenty and then thirty, the pain subsided, and Stiles' vision cleared. He shifted to the right, until he was laying on his back, and kicked out his window. Glass went everywhere. Stiles wiggled around until he was facing the window and crawled out on his hands and knees, moving carefully to avoid the shattered glass, cursing in every language that he knew.

 _It just had to be a fucking hydra._

Once he was out, he reached back in and grabbed his backpack, shoving anything extra he needed into it. His could come back for everything else some other time. If it didn't get towed away first; maybe the mist would have his back just this once. He stood and brushed himself off, checking his pocket for his coin. After he was sure it was there, he slung his bag over his shoulder and examined the damage done to his jeep.

It was terrible.

The hood was smoking, his headlights were busted, and one of his tires were missing. He took it all in, letting out a disbelieving scoff, his heart sinking in devastation. Roscoe was ruined.

"Un-fucking-believable."

Stiles glanced around, still muttering to himself, getting a better understanding of his surroundings. Which were nothing but trees and small woodland creatures. _Great, awesome, just wonderful._ He squinted in the direction he came from and caught sight the small, crooked trail Roscoe has paved. He hitched his bag higher on his back and took off toward the trail.

He made it back to the highway just shy of twenty minutes, but the moment he stepped out the tree line, his heart dropped.

Lydia's car was pared on the side of the road, her and Malia sitting on the hood, talking to each other in hushed tones. Scott was leaning on the passenger door and staring off into the trees. He perked up when Stiles emerged, eyes lighting up in relief.

Stiles' face immediately darkened. "What are you doing here?"

"We were worried about you."

"So, you followed me? That's nice, real nice." He said, attempting to keep his voice steady and even. He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. He wanted to scream. _How could they be so stupid?_ He raked his hands through his hair. "Just go home."

By now, Malia and Lydia had climbed off the hood and gathered around Scott. Malia's mouth twisted into a straight line. "You made it clear you weren't going to tell us where you were going. What else were we supposed to do?"

"Trust me?"

His voice hit the wind dangerously, sharp in the small distance between him and his friends. He didn't mean for it sound as cold, but he couldn't help it. His emotions were going haywire. At his words, Lydia flinched. His heart dropped. "Stiles, we trust you. We were just –"

"Worried about me. Yeah, you said that already." Stiles couldn't stop himself. It came out harsh, but it was what they needed to hear, what he needed to say. He heard himself scoff. "I'm not helpless, you know. I can take care of myself. _Go home._ "

Malia stepped forward, until she was in his face, fiery eyes meeting his gaze. "We're not leaving."

"Yes, you are." Stiles growled back.

Scott reached out for Malia, whispering her name, and pulled her back to him. She shot him a look and he just shook his head. She complied, moving back, arms crossing over her chest defiantly. Stiles looked away from them and his best friend cleared his throat. "I know can take care of yourself. But you're freaking me out. You're my best friend – Stiles, you're my brother – and I'm worried about you. Just tell me what's wrong."

The demigod sighed, the anger leaving him at Scott's words. He rubbed his forehead, cursing to himself about how stubborn they were. He didn't know why he kept trying; it didn't matter what he said or how harsh he said it, they wouldn't leave until they got the answer they wanted. _Just tell them._ Would they leave if he told them? Would it convince them he'd be fine on his own? Hades, it might convince them they needed to stay.

Or maybe they wouldn't believe him.

Who was he kidding? Of course, they'd believe him. He glanced at Lydia, and she met his gaze head on. "If I tell you, will you leave?"

Lydia pulled her gaze away quickly, turning to look at Scott. A silent conversation passed between the two of them, raised eyebrows and head tilts being a dead giveaway to what they were conveying. Scott glanced at him, and Stiles knew his friends were just about to throw out their own offer. Finally, they turned toward him, and Lydia squared her shoulders. "You tell us first, and then _we'll_ decide if we're going to leave."

"Lydia, if I tell you before you agree to leave, you won't."

"Good to know you weren't born yesterday," she replied, pouting in mock sympathy. Stiles huffed, jaw clenching in irritation. "Fine."

Scott smiled, "Fine? You'll tell us?"

"Yeah," Stiles licked his lips, "but you can't say anything until I'm done, okay?"

Malia opened her mouth to argue, but Lydia hushed her. Scott nodded immediately. Stiles took a deep breathe, attempting to clear his head. "I'm on my way to…summer camp, the one I've been going to since I was eleven. You know the one. But it's not a regular summer camp – it's for demigods. Which is what I am…a demigod. Greek, to be exact. Apollo fell in love with my dad one summer at a rock festival and then I showed up on my dad's door step a month later. I'm half Noah Stilinski and half sun god." He paused for a moment, hands running through his hair anxiously. "Every ancient civilization that worshipped gods wasn't crazy. They exist. Greek, Roman, Egyptian – they're real and sometimes they go out and have kids with mortals and those kids are like me. We get certain…skills from them. We're hunted by monsters and this camp is one of the only safe places on Earth for us. We train there, learn to defend ourselves, save the world. I have friend – Percy, he's practically family – and he needs my help."

As he spoke he found himself looking at his feet. His throat felt constricted, like he was about to choke, and he cleared his throat. He glanced up at them – staring at him with a mixture of wonder and disbelief and fury – and he took a small step back. He found Scott's eyes. "I wanted to tell you, so many times, but it's not a good life. It's brutal, dangerous. Most us die before we're twenty. Just knowing could get you killed and I didn't – I didn't want that to happen."

It was silent for longer than Stiles would have liked.

Lydia – her voice soft and sweet against the wind, curls a deep red in the fading sunlight, eyes staring into Stiles with such sincerity – broke the silence. "Your friend…what does he need help with?"

"You can't come with me."

"Why not?" Malia said. Stiles noticed she'd uncrossed her arms, her hands now in front of her, rubbing together nervously. She looked smaller than Stiles had ever seen her. "We can help. Like you said, you're not helpless and we aren't either."

Stiles closed his eyes. He knew they didn't have to be looked after, protected. _But neither did Allison._ His fist clenched, his nails digging into his palm. _Neither did Michael. Lee. Silena. Leo._ His eyes snapped open. "I don't think it's a good idea, Lia."

"Why not?" She repeated.

"Stiles, we can't just let you do this on your own. We're a team, _a pack_. We fight crime, remember? I'm Batman, you're Robin." Scott grinned, reaching out to push Stiles' shoulder playfully. Before he could stop himself, Stiles found himself answering, "I _specifically_ said I didn't want to be Robin all the time."

"Is that a yes? We can come?"

Stiles ignored Lydia's question, instead turning his back toward them. He surveyed the tree line cautiously. He didn't know how long they'd been talking, but if he stood around any longer, he knew the hydra would come chasing after him. He didn't want to be around when the monster reappeared. He turned back to his friends, and crossed his arms. "We're gonna have to lay down some ground rules."

"Right, of course, go on." Scott gestured with his hand for Stiles to continue, but he's smiling so wide Stiles figured it hurt.

"First of all, you need to listen to me. If we run into any monsters, there going to come after me first." The hydra that ran him off the road passed through his mind once again. "I don't think your claws will have an effect on most monsters, so if I say run, you run. Got it? Second, when we get to camp, you might not be able to get through the barrier. If you can't, you have to promise me you'll go home." His friends exchanged quick glances, but Stiles didn't see. "Third, if you do make it through the barrier, you need to listen to my advice about everything. The last thing you want is to get on Clarisse's bad side."

Malia furrowed her brows, "Who's Clarisse?"

"That's not important. Just don't piss her off."

The three of them nodded and Stiles felt himself smile. He knew he'd probably regret it, letting them come, but something about them tagging along made him feel lighter. They were his friends, his family, his pack and they had his back.

Malia and Lydia had walked around the car, laughing about a joke Malia had whispered, when their laughter came to a stop. Stiles head jerked up, eyes going wide. A loud, scraping sound echoed from the woods. It was metallic, like nails on a chalkboard, and it sent a chill through the air that made Stiles shiver. He could hear the hissing.

Flames burst out the forest, above their heads, but close enough that Stiles could feel the heat on his skin.

His hand slipped into his pocket, tightening on the coin that always rested there, and found himself grinning.

He loved a good challenge.


End file.
